


The Bearer of Unconditional Things

by hunted



Series: Trans Hank Anderson [5]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adult Characters (Aged 21 or Older), Age Difference, Anal Sex, Androids, Artificial Intelligence, Banter, Bathing/Washing, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Penis, Conversations, Domestic, Dominant Trans Male Character, Dominant Trans Man, Established Relationship, Ethical Dilemmas, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Gay, Gay Sex, Gender Identity, Hand Jobs, Humanity, Kissing, Love, M/M, Not Beta Read, Nudity, Phalloplasty, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Public Sex, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Robot/Human Relationships, Romance, Sassy, Self-Lubrication, Shower Sex, Smoking, Smut, Top Trans Male Character, Top Trans Man, Trans Hank Anderson, Trans Male Character, look it's all very romantic and undefined, well.... more like.... they don't experience age the same way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunted/pseuds/hunted
Summary: Hank stood before his window, looking out at the world. Sunlight settled softly across the view before him, the lavender of twilight warming into the butter-yellow crispness of early morning....Hank fucks Connor at home, in public, etc. They talk about feelings and shit. Title taken fromHead Over Feet by Alanis Morissette.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: Trans Hank Anderson [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611034
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features trans!Hank, but he remains true to canon, and I haven't used any feminising language for his anatomy (out of personal preference and because I'm starved of masculine FTM rep). He has a penis as a result of a Phalloplasty operation. You can see an example of a trans male Phallo cock [here](https://www.phallo.net/resources/videos/pump-penile-implant-erection.htm). In essence, just picture a cock. Hope you enjoy reading!

Hank stood before his window, looking out at the world. Sunlight settled softly across the view before him, the lavender of twilight warming into the butter-yellow crispness of early morning. He was smoking, fragile paper soft against his lips and between his thumb and forefinger. The tawny chestnut of his curls had long since faded into grey waves, curtains of silver framing his scruffy cheeks and keeping his gaze locked away from the world. As a young man, he’d ducked his head down and obscured his eyes, hiding from the judgement and hostility of a world that didn’t want him. Now the hairstyle was just a habit. He thought that, maybe, he should try cutting it short. He wasn’t sure he could be fucked.

Naked, he stood contemplating this, and other mundane things. The sun painted him in gentle strokes, his body framed by a golden silhouette of hair. His chest was rugged and thick with it, his shoulders and back no longer the milky smooth contours of a boy. He didn’t think about his youth much, because it was laden with the lies of girlhood. He would much rather live in the present. The life of an old man was his heaven.

He placed a palm against his sternum, slid it downwards lazily. He followed the shape of his belly, still pleased by it, even after all these years. The maleness of it. Downward further still, and he curled his hand against the base of his cock. He closed his eyes, dark lashes dipping down low, expression content as he sucked deeply on his cigarette. He could feel the warm clutch of his fingers. The touch of his own hand. The miracle of it all never really faded.

“Coming back to bed, Lieutenant?”

Hank’s face quirked into a smile. He took one last drag of his cigarette, and turned away from the window, away from a melancholy that was too bored to be sad.

His body wasn’t the only one that harboured a miracle. Connor lay on his side, propping himself up on one arm, elbow denting the mattress. He wasn’t unlike a marble statue. Too still and too smooth to be human. Perfectly formed. His beauty wasn’t the kind that had been discovered. It had been built. The difference between them was stark, and Hank was aware of it some days, but mostly it didn’t matter to him. It was a source of fascination. A journey of discovery, rather than an insecurity. He didn’t aspire to anatomical perfection. As far as he was concerned, the concept didn’t really exist. Hank loved Connor as a man. Not as a plastic doll.

He strode across the room to the bed, pressing his cigarette into the bedside ashtray. He leaned down and flopped beside Connor. The young man laughed. Hank brushed a wave of black hair off that smooth forehead, fingers met with not one blemish or imperfection. Connor’s eyes were at once dark and vivid, filaments of sunlight filtering through the deep brown of his irises. He watched Hank expectantly, the corners of his lips softened by a smile.

“You’re in a good mood,” he declared quietly, “What are your plans for today?”

Hank hummed. “Not sure.”

“I have a number of activities in mind.”

“Do you, now?”

“Yes,” Connor continued, the bland flatness of his voice only managing to be sarcastic because Hank knew him so well, “Though I imagine you’ve got other priorities.”

Hank grinned. “That right?”

Connor quirked his head to the side, into Hank’s hand. “Am I wrong?”

The innocence of his expression was entirely silly and playful, and Hank adored it. He crossed the space between them, traversing that stretch of sheet so their lips could meet. Connor licked into his mouth, and Hank reached to hold him. The pale, willowy form of his lover was not human. His ribcage moved beneath his skin like piano keys, shifting with every manufactured breath; inhalations that were performed, courtesy of an update which allowed Connor to more realistically mimic human behaviour. He was silicone and carbon fibre, soft beyond belief, deadly in his precision and his immortal youth. The very hands that stroked and rubbed at Hank’s skin, scratching at his beard and tweaking his nipples, could snap necks and rend bones to dust.

Hank cupped Connor’s face, rolling on top of him, hips inclining against a willing body. He never had to worry about taking up too much space, hurting his beloved in any physical way. Connor’s presence was guaranteed, his safety infinite. Hank would never lose him.

Connor’s legs drifted upward, knees folding on either side of Hank’s waist. A rumbling groan built in Hank’s chest and journeyed up his throat, seeming to travel between them, manifesting in Connor’s answering whine.

“You know me so well,” Hank murmured, “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Of what?”

“Of me.”

“No,” Connor replied calmly, honest in ways no other person could truly be, “You’re still a mystery to me in so many ways.”

Hank chuckled. “Bullshit.”

“It’s true,” Connor’s back arched up off the bed in a graceful wave, heels digging into the mattress, the bold line of his white cock pressing against Hank’s belly in a blatant plea for attention, “Where I am a newly blooming flower, you are a huge tree. Intricate systems of memory and growth I can only observe, never experience. You have lived for so long, and been so many different people. Your roots stretch so far and so wide. Your foundations do not define you, whereas I am only a foundation.”

Hank reached down and took Connor in hand, the shape of them so innate by now, so familiar.

“I never I understand this poetry shit,” he breathed, “Always sayin’ stuff I don’t understand.”

“You downplay your own intelligence,” Connor chastised him in a whisper, words hitched with arousal as artificial warmth built inside him, hips jerking instinctually into Hank’s touch, “You understand me perfectly well.”

Hank touched him, lazily kissing the immortal boy, their lips making wet, intimately quiet noises. There was a beautiful absence about these moments. No swelling music or dramatic notes flavouring their silence. The silence _itself_ was the eroticism. How loud their movements were, like this. In their bed.

“You’re more than a foundation,” Hank murmured against parted lips, “You’ve grown so much. I’m so proud of you.”

Connor smiled at that. “And still I have so much to learn.”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

Hank dragged the pad of his thumb over the head of Connor’s cock, just to see the boy writhe.

“We learn differently, don’t we?”

Connor panted against his cheek. “Indeed.”

“So,” Hank continued, “Who’s to say that I’m any more advanced than you are? Who’s to say your emotions ain’t enough? I’m no more grown than you.”

Connor laughed. “That could be debated by scholars and scientists alike. And it has been.”

“I don’t give a shit about scholars and scientists.”

“In this, I trust.”

“My _point,”_ Hank continued, arm still moving languidly, encouraging his lover’s pleasure, “is that emotion is relative.”

“So profound, Lieutenant.”

“You’re more fuckin’ emotionally mature than most people I know. I see it, Connor. I feel it.” Hank laid heavily against Connor, blanketing him with his body weight, every inch of them pressed together. He took the base of his cock and, without needing to be asked, Connor spread his thighs wider and bent eagerly, groaning deeply when Hank pressed up against his hole, blunt pressure deepening and lengthening as Hank pushed inside.

“I feel it, here,” Hank told him, voice catching, breathless in the face of overwhelming sensations. Connor clung on tight as Hank finally bottomed out, knees raising higher still, a gentle pressure denting the base of Hank’s spine as Connor crossed his ankles there.

“But I’m still not human,” Connor breathed.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, Connor, fuck. I just want you. I just want you.”

Connor seemed to giggle. Hank raised himself up on his arms, an eyebrow raised. The morning light slanted across Connor’s face prettily, dark waves mussed and silky. Hank was stunned, not for the first time, by how lucky he was.

“Somethin’ funny?”

Connor’s grin broadened. “Only you. Us.” He ran a hand down the furred front of Hank’s chest. “This.”

“Funny, huh?”

“Funny,” Connor murmured, gaze moving downward, Hank’s stomach clenching in delight as he saw Connor staring lustfully at the place they were joined, “In the sense that I’m overcome.”

“Fuck that, I’m the _overcome_ one here,” Hank blurted, echoing his thoughts from only moments ago, “You ain’t allowed to get all starry-eyed, I ain’t worth it.”

Connor laughed again. His eyes crinkled with the gentlest smile Hank had ever seen. The kind of love you couldn’t buy.

“You’re wrong,” Connor whispered, words barely a breath of sound, “You’re wrong.”

Hank couldn’t respond to the heartfelt emotion in Connor’s tone. It was so profound that it almost hurt. He dove down, kissing Connor’s neck wildly, hammering his hips forward. Connor cried out, thighs tightening, arms winding tightly around Hank’s shoulders.

“Hank, oh, oh,”

“Love you so fuckin’ much,” Hank growled, “God, the way you make me feel…”

Connor held on tight, body jostled by Hank's movements. Hank fucked him hard. The bed rocked, its frame squeaking under the pressure, bedposts tapping against the wall. He was chasing the intensity of their love as urgently as he was trying to avoid it. He wasn't good at explaining his feelings aloud. He hadn't been prepared for such disarmingly genuine words, not so early in the day. He had to show Connor the earnestness of his feelings. Sex was the easiest way.

***

They cleaned up, afterwards.

Hank cupped his hand and poured shampoo into it, bringing his palm up against his scalp. Water fell from the shower head, hot and satisfying. Connor was sitting before him, waist-deep in bubbly, soap-milky bathwater. His hair was stuck to his forehead, forming flat circles against the shape of his temples. His lashes stuck together, thickened by beads of moisture.

He tilted his face upward, blinking up at Hank.

"What," Hank asked, voice gruff, "Somethin' wrong?"

Connor considered that. Water continued to fall, and Hank massaged his head, hair thick with lathered shampoo. They watched each other, unafraid of their own nakedness, the lack of barriers between them.

"Do you see me as a man?"

Hank frowned. He tipped his head into the water stream, washed his hair clean.

"Yeah," he replied slowly, "And no."

Connor tapped his fingers against the water, droplets collecting and then sliding downward, no fingerprints to hold them in place.

"Is there a right answer here? Are you fishin' for a particular reply?"

"No," Connor answered.

Hank appreciated the calmness in his voice. With the tired groan of an old man, he turned off the shower head. He squatted down and then sat, warm water engulfing his thighs and the aching base of his back. Connor shifted to allow him room, their legs pressed together. Hank took his partner's hands.

"Show me your skin," he asked, "Just for a second."

Connor paused for only a moment. This wasn't something Hank had ever asked him before.

A white blot began at the tip of his nose and bled outward like the spread of ink. It followed the shape of his nose, inching between his brows and draining the colour from his cheeks. The curves of his lips, delicate as rose petals, became as pristine as snow. His cheekbones became defined by blue lines, his chin painted by a rectangle; the hidden panels of his anatomy. His new protocols had refined him, changed the way his skin functioned. His hair remained, lustrous and thick, but white strands overtook black until his hair was gossamer-pale. His chest began to glow, a blue heart hidden in the shell of his ribcage. The seams of him were visible, drawn over the contours of his body like the most delicate painting.

The process took only a few seconds.

Hank looked at him, and smiled. He tried to let his affection show, tried to mirror Connor's unflinching love from before.

"I see you as a man," he murmured, "No matter what you look like. And I see you as this, too."

"As a robot?"

"No."

"As an android?"

"I... No. Not quite. It's..." Hank struggled to find the words. He looked down at their hands; his calloused, scarred, weary fingers against Connor's porcelain touch. "I don't see you as... anything that has a name. You're just... Connor. You're just you."

Connor didn't reply. Hank felt like an idiot.

"Obviously you're... an android, by definition, but.... it's more than that. It's not just that you're an android. Or that you're just a man. You're _Connor_. You're all of it, and you're... _more_. You have a... a _soul_... Sorry. Fuck." He rubbed at his face, heel of his hand against his eye. "Sorry. I'm no good at this. You'd think I'd been drinkin' again, the way I sound."

Connor rubbed his thumb against Hank's knuckles. "You're plenty good at this."

"Horseshit."

"You describe things in ways I cannot."

"What, so," Hank looked up, frowning deeply, "You get what I mean?"

Connor nodded. Still, his silicone skin showed, and any ruse of humanity was absent. Hank almost preferred it this way, at least for a time. The intimacy of it.

"I feel that there are depths inside me that will go unlabelled for the extent of my life," he mused softly, "Nobody can tell me who I am, except you. Nobody can tell me what gender an android should be. Who I should be, by definition."

Hank held his hand tighter. "Reckon you're the final authority on that, Connor."

"I could never name something like that on my own. You've seen so much in your life, Lieutenant. You know what it is to find your own identity. To craft it."

Hank felt his chest ache. He wanted to say that he knew absolutely fuck-all about androids and sentience and what it meant to be a person. But he figured all that went unsaid. He'd professed his ignorance too many times, and he had to have faith in his own abilities. Now wasn't the time for hesitation. Connor needed him. Connor needed his certainty and his human eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading!  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> If you're interested in writing trans dudes, see [this guide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20475404). I love to see more FTM headcanons popping up, but I'd really like cis writers to be more diverse in their depictions of us ;-) Cheers!


	2. Chapter 2

Hank had always been a pretty vanilla lover.

Granted, it wasn’t due to some moral rejection or lack of imagination. He’d always been eager to try things out, to experiment, but that hadn’t been on the cards with most of his partners. The advantage of dating Connor, if their bond could really be reduced to such a juvenile label, was that the pretty-eyed android had far less incentive to obey society’s rules. If a situation had inherent risk, he would measure and account for that risk, making internal calculations with full awareness that a little danger was like a drug for human beings. But he had no concern for decency or compliance. It made Hank’s heart ache, to know that he was the centre of his beautiful android’s world. Laws and conventions meant nothing. All Connor cared about was the intersection of Hank’s arousal and his safety. If Connor could deduce that Hank would not be put at serious risk by a sexual activity, he would happily engage in it.

This was how, with Connor’s permission and the inherent guarantee of safety therein, Hank found himself fucking the boy in a public restroom. They were in a stall, and yes, there were other men using the bathroom. Connor had run all his calculations, inferred the likelihood of that they’d be caught, and extrapolated the subsequent probability that someone could then identify Hank and take a complaint of public indecency to his superiors. The risk was low enough that he had consented to this happening.

Still, Hank was _beyond_ turned on.

Internal simulations and predictions could only prove so much, and out in the real world, events occurred without such perfect mathematical guarantees. Knowing that he _probably_ wouldn’t be arrested didn’t do much to quell the white-hot, boiling arousal that knotted his gut and mixed with anxiety to form a potent, overwhelming sensation.

He was fucking his boyfriend in public.

They could get caught.

If Connor made enough noise, someone would hear them. They would know what Hank was doing to this perfect, sweet boy. How incriminating they would appear; Hank, with his grey hair and his lined face, and Connor, with his smooth cheeks and youthful body. Hank was turned on by the perceived power dynamic, by his own age and appearance, by the young innocence which Connor only partly orchestrated. The truth was that Connor, for all his analytical abilities and his super intelligence, was weak to matters of the flesh. Nothing cut through logical programming like the pounding pulses of pleasure.

Connor's shirt was creased and crumpled from being tugged at by Hank. He had gotten his hands underneath it and rubbed at Connor's nipples. Connor's shorts were crumpled around his ankles, unzipped and pushed out of the way without ceremony, Hank penetrating him roughly and without onsite discussion. The boy's face was turned to the side, cheek pressed against the stall wall. His brow was tight with a pinched frown, his eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed together hard. Hank had one hand braced on his shoulder, the other gripping his hip. There was nothing more hot than fucking without speaking, without asking for permission beyond the consent that had already been enthusiastically given. It made him feel powerful, perverted, animalistic.

Nearby, two men were standing at the sinks, having a conversation. Hank could hear their every word through the closed stall door, their low conversation and muttering complaints about a shared boss.

“We should take an extra hour for lunch,” one of the men proposed, gruff and irritated, “show that cocksucker what happens when he undervalues employees.”

“Yeah,” agreed his co-worker, sounding tired, “And get fired.”

“Nah, he doesn’t have the balls.”

They placidly argued about this for a while, one of them washing his hands while the other tapped messages out on his phone. Hank’s cock was buried in Connor’s tight heat, every inch of him gripped by the snug, warm silkiness of Connor’s body. He drew his hips back and forth, pressing deep inside, the head of him nestling against the cluster of synthetic nerves which had been woven through Connor’s pale flesh. Connor quivered, lashes fluttering as pleasure moved through his body in waves.

_“Ah-”_

Hank put a hand over Connor’s mouth, silencing his moan.

There was a pause, and at first, Hank was sure the two strangers had heard Connor’s voice. But they continued to talk.

“I’m telling you, it’s not right to pay us that rate.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“You certainly act like it.”

“Maybe I just like having a job.”

“You like having _this_ job?”

“Better than none.”

One of the men chuckled with bleak humour. “Debatable.”

Hank’s heart was hammering, his skin hot and itching, and he knew that he was already addicted to the thrill of doing something so deeply inappropriate in public. He liked seeing his palm covering Connor’s mouth, liked the half-lidded helplessness of the boy’s face as he was fucked. He didn’t usually consider himself a dominant man, but this turned him on. Owning, defiling, and claiming something beautiful. A universal human obsession. It made him feel dirty, like a perverted old man who had pulled a much younger boyfriend into a stall and started ravishing him.

Connor glanced back at him, eyes glazed and unfocussed. Hank pushed slowly inside him once more, staring back, hungry to hear another of those bitten-off groans.

“Mmm- _Mmm-_ ”

The men continued to talk, Connor’s muffled sounds not alerting them. Yet.

Hank was realising that he wanted them to look inside the stall. He wanted to be caught.

He wanted someone to see him doing this to Connor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  To be continued ;-)   
> 


End file.
